


Overcome Me

by dragongirlG



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Flogging, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort Bingo Round 10, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Masturbation, Modern Steve Rogers, Nipple Clamps, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Painplay, Podfic Welcome, Praise Kink, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Riding Crops, Secret Identity, Stucky Bingo 2019, Sub Bucky Barnes, Whipping, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, autonomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21116066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragongirlG/pseuds/dragongirlG
Summary: Steve Rogers is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent visiting a BDSM club on his night off. Despite his twink-like appearance, he's looking to be someone's Dom. When a shy, beefy brunette approaches Steve and asks to be his sub, Steve agrees despite his reservations about the man's understanding of BDSM. Steve takes the man—James—to a private dungeon and proceeds to give him a mind-blowing mix of pleasure and pain, unaware that he's helping James regain his own identity outside of the title of Winter Soldier. When the Winter Soldier's HYDRA handlers come calling, James unexpectedly switches his allegiance to Steve—even if it's not what Steve wants.Or: Modern skinny Steve accidentally honeypots the Winter Soldier into defecting from HYDRA by being a gentle Dom who pushes him to his limits. Fill for Stucky Bingo 2019 ("riding crop") and for Hurt/Comfort Bingo round 10 ("mistaken identity" ).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The HTP Discord server collectively brainstormed several variations of this story. I decided to run with this one. I hope I have done it justice. 
> 
> There are minor references to HYDRA using the Winter Soldier as a sex slave in this story. There are no graphic descriptions. Also, dubious consent is tagged because even though Steve constantly checks in about consent, the Winter Soldier's mission is to submit to Steve.

Steve carefully scopes out the floor of the club, leaning back against the corner couch he managed to claim. He's dressed discreetly: stretchy dark skinny jeans that allow for range of movement and highlight his wiry muscles, a black tank top that sits tight against his skinny chest, and a black leather jacket that fits perfectly thanks to Natasha's insistence on dragging him to a tailor. He's wearing eyeliner and a little mascara, too. In conjunction with the dim lighting, they work well enough to obscure his identity as New York-based S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Steve Rogers. That's not who he wants to be tonight. Tonight he just wants to be Grant, another Dom looking to safely and consensually play with like-minded people.

Steve spots an imposing figure making a beeline toward him, and he sighs and straightens his shoulders. He's getting tired of having to fend off meathead Doms who zero in on Steve and immediately label him "twink sub." Steve's already had to deal with three tonight. Two backed off respectfully; one got spitting mad and called Steve an "entitled little bitch," then promptly got thrown out by security. Steve had been ready to defend himself, of course, but he's thankful that he didn't have to risk exposing his S.H.I.E.L.D. training in the place he uses to relax.

The man has chin-length brown hair, a broad chest, and an impressive array of muscles that are clearly visible through the black leather covering all of his skin except his neck and head. It's his eyes that really catch Steve's attention, though. While his facial expression is mostly blank, there's a flicker of—something in his blue-gray gaze. Hesitance? Fear? Something that makes Steve pause and look instead of dismissing him outright.

"Can I help you?" Steve asks politely.

The man gives a tiny nod, then intones, very softly, "I want to be your sub."

Steve blinks, sure that he's misheard. "Um. Could you repeat that?"

The man doesn't miss an inch. His voice is a little louder this time. "I want to be your sub."

"Oh. Okay." Steve clears his throat. "We should probably have a discussion first. And then ask the DM to see if one of the rooms is available—"

The man shakes his head, something a little desperate in his expression. "My…house. Please."

Steve crosses his arms over his chest with a stern glare. "I don't go to unfamiliar secondary locations."

The man twitches, looking completely bewildered. "Your…house? Then?"

Steve's beginning to think that this man might be better off with a different partner. He sighs. "Look—how about we just start with the basics? You can call me Grant. What can I call you?"

The man's mouth works for a long while, and then he finally says, uncertainly, "James?"

Steve takes it in stride. "Okay, James. What are you looking for today?"

"I want to be your sub," James repeats for the third time.

"I got that," says Steve, his mouth threatening to twitch into a smile. "But—okay. Do you have any hard limits? Anything that's an absolute no?"

James shrugs. He doesn't seem to comprehend the question.

Steve sighs. "Okay. Come with me."

Steve leads James through the crowd and out to the front lobby. He smiles at Mara, who's running coat check today, and then grabs two BDSM checklists and two pencils from the baskets at the coat counter. He also nabs a couple of condoms and packets of lube. It never hurts to have extra.

Steve directs James to a small round table with two chairs and sits down across from him, squinting at the list of kinks listed neatly on the page. Next to each one there's a column for "Experience (Yes/No), "Willingness (0=No, 5=Yes)," and "Notes & Nuances." At the bottom there's a section for notes on aftercare, allergies, medical issues, and "other fun stuff/ideas."

"Fill this out so that I get a better idea of your limits," says Steve. "If you don't know what something means, ask."

James nods, studying the list with a furrowed brow and twirling his pencil in his right hand.

Steve stares, mesmerized by the motion, before he snaps out of it and quickly gets to work on his own, giving a "0" to scat, watersports, and golden showers, as well as being photographed, webcam play, and video recordings. Everything else falls along a spectrum, and he rates each item accordingly, with a couple notes here and there. At the end, he scribbles a quick sentence about his occasional flare-ups of asthma and arrhythmia. _As long as I've taken my meds on schedule, these shouldn't be a problem. Also, I'm stronger than I look. _

James is staring straight ahead when Steve looks up again. "All done?" asks Steve.

James nods.

"Let's compare," says Steve. He pushes his list across the table toward James, then holds out his hand. "May I see?"

James slowly slides his list toward Steve.

Steve's eyes widen as he reads through James' list. James has put a "Yes" in the experience column and a "5" in the willingness column next to everything. In the notes, he's written in perfect Palmer Method penmanship: _Left arm is sensitive but functional. No other limits. _

"Wow, nice handwriting," says Steve. He looks up, making sure to hold James' gaze. "You've really tried everything, huh?"

James stares back at him. "Yes."

"And you like it all?"

"Yes," James says without even blinking.

Steve blows out a breath. "Okay," he says, trying not to let doubt creep into his tone. "I'm…I'm open to playing with you, but I'm going to check in with you often, okay? I—I like to do that. And of course I expect my boundaries to be respected.”

James nods. “Yes, Grant.”

Steve rises. “I'll go check in with the DM about a play room.”

James makes an aborted movement with his left hand. “Please,” he says, his eyes wide and beseeching, “could we go somewhere private?”

Steve hesitates, the “no” already forming on his lips. There are so many red flags about this situation that he knows he should probably just cut and run. But there’s something about James—this faint hint of vulnerability—that has Steve far more interested than he should be. And if Steve can control most aspects of the situation, there shouldn’t be that much risk, right?

He can hear Natasha’s sarcastic rejoinder in his head. Clint’s too.

He ignores all of them and turns back to James. “If you don’t mind traveling a little, we can go to the private dungeon my friends and I share. They’re out tonight”—Natasha and Clint are in DC, meeting with Director Fury and Deputy Director Hill—"so we don’t have to worry about any schedule conflicts. We can play there tonight, and we can discuss whether we want to continue any relationship afterward. Sound good?”

James nods quickly, obviously relieved. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” says Steve. “do you need anything from coat check?”

“No,” says James.

“Great. Let’s go.”

Steve takes a moment to shoot Natasha and Clint a quick text: _Borrowing the playground for the night, knock before entering!_

Natasha responds a minute later: _Have fun and clean up your mess ;-)_

Clint replies with a series of emojis: a thumbs-up, a peach, handcuffs, sweat, and a devil face. Steve chuckles and shakes his head.

Neither James nor Steve drove to the club, so they walk until they reach the main road and hail a taxi. It drops them off a block away from the warehouse that doubles as the dungeon. Steve leads James to the back entrance and unlocks the gate with a quick fingerprint scan. The door creaks open a moment later after he types in the pass code. He waits until James has stepped inside before relocking the doors and checking the security measures (all intact), and then he leads James down the stairs, opening the dungeon door.

The dungeon is extensive and well-lit with warm and diffuse light, and the equipment is durable, clean, and well-maintained. The four-poster bed in the center has clean satin sheets, a canopy, and a pile of soft blankets at its foot, along with various attachment points for chains and cuffs. Natasha and Clint generously offered to share the space with Steve once they, well, Natasha found out about his preferences.

“Just make sure we’re not there at the same time as you,” said Natasha, amused. “We like you, but Clint and I prefer to play alone."

Steve's only been here twice: once to scope out the place, and once with a sub from the club who called himself Arnie. Arnie had been a wonderful partner, but ultimately a one-off; Arnie had gotten into a relationship with a Dom named Michael shortly after his and Steve's play session. As far as Steve knows, the two are happy together.

Steve glances at James, who's standing quietly in parade rest and flicking his eyes around the room, assessing all the exits and sightlines like a well-trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Steve is sure he's never seen James before, but that's not surprising considering how much S.H.I.E.L.D. likes to compartmentalize. Steve is certainly not going to ask James to disclose whether he's an agent, considering Steve himself isn't willing to do so in this context. It's not relevant until it becomes relevant.

Steve quickly goes over his and James' safewords ("Brooklyn" for Steve; James doesn't seem to have one, but at Steve's instance, he finally mutters "Sergeant", then looks surprised at himself). Steve mentally files away the response as another red flag, and he wonders once again if it's a good idea to go through with this. James is twice Steve's size, and if the situation goes south in some way…

Well, this dungeon is likely one of the safest spaces in the city, and it'll go on lockdown if either Steve or James presses the emergency button discreetly embedded into the wall. Steve informs James about it, who blinks and nods, a flash of surprise crossing his face.

"Okay," says Steve, taking a deep breath, "I think we've covered everything. Are you ready?"

"Yes," says James.

"All right," says Steve, "Let's begin."


	2. Chapter 2

The Asset stays in parade rest as his target circles him like a predator, eyes traveling up and down the Asset's body and face with a hungry gleam. He forces himself to keep his face blank when, to his alarm, a frisson of discomfort shoots through his veins. The Asset is used to being looked at like this, like an object, like a piece of meat, like a toy; he's not sure why this time would be any different.

When the Asset was briefed on this mission, he was sure he'd been set up to fail. Subterfuge and espionage is not—_is no longer?_—his modus operandi; he is a blunt tool of violence, though a fast and silent one, a snake waiting in the shadows to strike at the precise moment before disappearing. There are—echoes in his head, lingering residues that the Chair couldn't erase, of missions like this—smiles and heated looks and empty praises dropped during lustful embraces, followed by wide-eyed shock and a slow, steady stream of blood and—

"James?"

The Asset jerks and steps backward as someone reaches for him.

"Sorry," says the target warily. "You looked like you weren't really present."

The Asset dips his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I won't do it again."

In this mission, the Asset is supposed to obey the target. Get close, let the target think that the Asset is under the target's control. And then—flip the switch. Kidnap the target and secure him in a safehouse where the STRIKE team will be waiting. They're expected to rendezvous in twenty-four hours. That should be plenty of time.

(The Asset is 99% sure that he picked the right target. There is a seed of doubt, but—the target had been described as the "short, skinny, blue-eyed blonde with an attitude problem" and was known to be at that specific location at that time. There was none other that fit the description in the club.)

The target says, "You can call me Grant."

The Asset repeats dutifully, "Grant."

"Is it all right if I call you James?"

"Yes, s—Grant."

"Good job, James." Grant gives him a small smile, and the Asset barely manages to suppress his sudden shiver. Grant continues, "Kneel on the floor and rest your weight on your heels, then place your hands on your thighs. Keep looking at me."

The Asset—no, James; he has a name tonight, a name which feels right and wrong all at once. James complies. This is a position he's been in before. The STRIKE team often likes to keep him like this when they're waiting to use him for recreational purposes, though they always make him keep his eyes on the ground. James tilts his head up, baring his neck as he stares into Grant's sky-blue eyes.

When was the last time James saw a blue sky? The thought niggles at him. He pushes it away.

Grant turns briefly to pull a few things out of a drawer, then turns and walks behind James. James cranes his neck, following his course until Grant leaves his periphery.

"It's all right, you can relax," says Grant, placing one hand on James' right shoulder, and James turns his head back to the front, lowering his shoulders.

Grant rubs his thumb gently along the nape of James' neck, soothing, and then he begins to run his fingers through the hair there. James braces himself for the inevitable pain of the pull, but it never comes. Instead, Grant begins to brush the ends out, starting with the bottom layers and gradually working up James' skull to the crown. Then, he gathers up the hair loosely and ties it off with an elastic band. Some strands on the side fall forward into James' eyes, and Grant tucks them behind James' ears carefully.

Grant circles back around, and James lifts his eyes, meeting Grant's warm gaze. "Thought it might be easier to have that out of the way," says Grant. He lightly taps James' right shoulder. "Please take your top off and set it aside neatly. Then kneel again and cross your wrists behind your back."

James sheds the leather long-sleeve shirt and black undershirt quickly, grateful for the holographic skin graft that disguises his metal arm. That would be far too hard to explain. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Grant retrieve something from a nearby cabinet. Despite his small stature, there's a confidence in the way Grant moves, and it's not just because he knows this space, or because he's James' master for the night. No, there's something else—something hidden. That's probably why James has been sent to kidnap the man.

James meets Grant's eyes again when Grant approaches and gives him an approving smile. "Good." James' face uncontrollably warms with the praise, and Grant's smile grows wider. He holds up a pair of leather cuffs, then clips James' wrists together behind his back, securing them with a padlock. The cuffs aren't as tight as James is used to, nor are they custom-made for an enhanced individual like the ones STRIKE uses; he knows he could break them easily, but that would be against the parameters of the mission.

James holds his breath as Grant trails his fingers over James' nipples and ribs, fighting the urge to squirm at the tickling touch. "You're so beautiful," says Grant, and James inexplicably blushes again; no one has ever called the Asset _beautiful_, only _deformed _or _freakish _or _ugly_, or, sometimes, _disgustingly pretty_, which only confuses the Asset, though of course he doesn't admit it.

James' attention is drawn back to Grant when Grant sits down in front of him and grins at him playfully. Eyes fixed on James' face, Grant pinches James' nipple hard, first one, then the other. James gasps, face hot as his cock twitches in his pants, showing the first sign of interest since they started "playing."

"_Oh_," says Grant, eyebrows shooting up to his forehead, and a glint appears in his eye. "Does that feel good?"

James bites his lip.

"Answer me, James," says Grant firmly, and he pinches James' nipples again.

"Yes, Grant," James gasps, his hands clenching into fists behind his back as he tries to get himself under control. "It feels—good."

"Thank you for telling me," says Grant, massaging James' nipples now, soothing. James bites down the whimper trying to escape his throat, and Grant notices. "Don't hold yourself back. I want to hear you—when it's good, when it's bad, when it's somewhere in between, you understand?"

"Yes, Grant," James says.

"Good," says Grant, tucking a stray hair behind James' ear. "How about this?" He rises up to his knees, then leans in and kisses the underside of James' jaw.

"Yes," James breathes.

Grant hums thoughtfully. "And this?" He kisses James' jaw again, then nips at the skin lightly with his teeth.

"Yes," says James, taking a shaky breath. His cock has begun to take much more interest in the proceedings. It's distracting—but maybe that's the point.

Grant's hot breath brushes against James' ear. "Good job, James. Hold still for me, now—but don't force yourself to be silent. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Grant," James answers, and he lets out a small, startled noise as Grant nips and licks at his earlobe, then works his way down James' neck. It's so different from the rough bites the STRIKE team likes to inflict. In those instances, it's about _their_ pleasure, their delight and lust at getting to use the Asset and, sometimes, put him in his place; but here, it's about making _James _feel good, even if, paradoxically, what makes him feel good is pain. James can hardly wrap his mind around the concept.

Grant leaves a hot trail across James' collarbone, then returns his attention to James' chest, lavishing his pecs with teasing licks and kisses before finally flicking his tongue against James' nipples. James' breath, which has been getting heavier and noisier with Grant's ministrations, transforms into loud whimpers as Grant gently bites down.

"That's it," says Grant hoarsely. "That's it, James. Tell me how you feel."

"G-good," James manages to say, moaning as Grant pinches both nipples harshly. James' cock is fully hard now, and so is Grant's, though James barely registers the latter fact, lost in his own haze of pleasure. "Th-thank you, Grant."

Grant flushes bright red. "You're welcome, James. Close your eyes and stay there for a minute. I'll be right back."

James complies, shivering a little at the sudden loss of contact.

Grant isn't absent for long. James senses when he comes back. Still, the cold metal bite of the nipple clamp comes as a surprise. James' eyes fly open, and he lets out a startled yelp as the second clamp attaches to his other nipple.

"James, look at me," says Grant.

James lifts his eyes.

"Does this feel good?"

James nods. "Yes, Grant," he whispers, taking a shuddering breath. Heat pools in his groin, and his cock strains painfully against his leather pants.

Grant flicks with the chain of the clamps, chuckling a little when James whines. Then, very slowly, he raises the chain and brushes it against James' lips. "Open your mouth."

James lets his jaw drop open. Grant gently pulls the chain upward until it's resting on James' tongue, then says, "Keep that in your mouth until I tell you otherwise."

James clamps the chain in his teeth, moaning when the chain pulls on his nipples.

"You're doing so well, James," says Grant, tucking yet another stray hair behind James' ear. He brushes James' cheekbone with his thumb. "Does this still feel good? Nod or shake your head to answer."

James breathes deeply and nods.

"I'm glad." Grant reaches behind James and unclips the cuffs, bringing James' wrists to the front and re-cuffing them. He directs James to lift his arms above his head, then goes to the corner and presses a button, lowering a chain that had been hidden in the ceiling. It hits the concrete floor with a soft clink.

Grant attaches the ceiling chain to James' cuffs, then raises the chain until James' arms are stretched above his head.

"Still doing good?" asks Grant.

James nods. He truly is; his nipples ache from the chain, and he's aroused, but he feels…relaxed. It takes him a moment to find the right word. He can't remember the last time he was in this state. 

Grant disappears from view, and James listens to him quietly gather more supplies, vaguely wondering what Grant has in store.

Leather kisses the small of James' back, and James shudders a little, taking a deep breath. He’s been whipped before—the STRIKE team tends to use electrical cables—but this feels soft, gentle. Pleasant.

"Ten lashes to start," says Grant. "Keep count in your head. If you need a break, say your safe word."

Safe word? It takes James a moment to remember what he'd chosen. _Sergeant._

_Sergeant Barnes—James—32557—_

The first strike hits, chasing the strange thoughts away. James sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, focusing on the count as his back flares with heat.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine—Девять—_

James gasps and jerks, his eyes flying open as the last lash lands in between his shoulders. His breath comes short and fast, and he bites down hard on the chain between his teeth as his heart pounds rapidly in his chest.

"James. Hey. Look at me." Grant circles back around, still holding the flogger. The leather is black, and so is the handle. James stares at it as he gets his breath under control, then finally raises his eyes. Grant studies his face, gazing into his eyes like he's trying to see into James' soul. James resists the urge to look away.

"Are you all right?"

James nods.

Grant sets the flogger aside and leans in slowly, tucking James' hair behind his ears. "You'll let me know if you're not," he says, stroking a thumb along James' cheekbone. It's an order.

James swallows and nods.

"Okay," says Grant quietly. "Stand up, please."

James gets to his feet easily. The pull on his nipples has faded to a dull ache, and his cock is at half-mast now. He'd hardly noticed it flagging in his sudden panic. Still, it perks up with renewed interest when Grant steps around and trails his nails up James' spine, lightly scratching the same areas the flogger hit a few minutes previously.

"Let's get you out of the rest of your clothes," says Grant. He kneels and deftly undoes the laces on James' boots. James lifts his feet obligingly as Grant pulls James' shoes and socks off, then peels the sticky leather pants off James' thighs and calves. "You went commando, huh?" Grant comments as James' cock springs free. Grant's eyes linger on it, but he doesn't touch it. Instead, he adjusts the chain on James' wrists, pressing the button in the corner so that James' arms are stretched above his head once more.

"Ten more lashes, and then we'll move onto things with a little more bite," says Grant. "Close your eyes, James."

James complies.

Grant focuses on James' lower body this time around, striking James' ass, thighs, and calves with careful precision, avoiding any vulnerable areas like his kidneys. The resulting mix of pleasure and pain brings blood rushing back to James' cock. He jerks a little when Grant chuckles and runs one teasing finger over the shaft. The touch is light—maddeningly so.

"Are you enjoying yourself, James?" he asks.

James nods, exhaling a harsh breath. It comes out as a whine.

"You're doing so well," says Grant, moving his fingers downward to stroke James' balls. James can't help tensing; he feels so exposed, even more so than when the STRIKE team is passing him around during their recreational parties. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting out another shuddering breath as Grant lightly scratches James' inner thighs.

"Ready for more?" asks Grant.

James nods.

Grant steps away for a moment, and then—

James jerks abruptly, a startled, hoarse sound escaping his throat. Something is pinching the skin of his left inner thigh, something blunt and cold.

"Hold still," says Grant, his breath feather-light against the sensitive skin.

James swallows hard, teeth clenching against the chain of the nipple clamps, and takes a deep breath, forcing himself into the stillness he uses to endure particularly long missions or parties. The pinching continues all the way down to the skin of his knees, then follows on the other side. James' cock throbs urgently with each twinge.

"Relax," Grant says, soothing.

James lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, shivering as his nerves adjust to the line of pressure. He wonders what Grant has used. It's not metal of any sort—James is intimately familiar with that feeling—but it's something that's strong enough to pinch and hold flesh. Some kind of plastic clip, perhaps—or laminated wood. The thought brings up an image of a clothesline, draped with wet fabric swaying in the air, and the sounds of a bustling city—

A sharp sting on his ass brings him back to the present. James gasps, and Grant lands another blow on James' ass with what feels like a riding crop.

"Still doing all right?" asks Grant.

James nods.

"Good," says Grant, humming.

After that, James loses track of time. Grant whips James' hamstrings, his calves, and his ass mercilessly until James' thoughts get lost in a haze of heat and pain and arousal. When Grant runs the crop over the clips on his thighs, James comes back to himself for a brief moment and realizes he's been moaning, sounds escaping past the chain still clamped tightly between his teeth. Sweat drips down his back. His whole body feels like it's one giant bruise, and his cock is straining with the urgent need for friction.

"You're so beautiful," Grant breathes, and he rolls something across the room, stopping in front of James. "Open your eyes, James. Take a look at yourself."

James squints in the warm golden light. A shiver runs through him from head to toe. He's not meant to be seen on missions, and there are no mirrors in HYDRA bases—unless you count the glass of the cryotube—but his whole body is on display here. He takes in the red welts on his flushed skin; the pinched flesh of his thighs, held tight between wooden clothespins as James had guessed; the chain pulling against his nipples, shiny with spit in his mouth. Those sights are startling, but most surprising of all is the wild, wide-eyed desperation on his face.

He can't remember the last time he looked at his own reflection and saw a person staring back.

Tears pool in the corner of eyes, sudden and hot. He blinks them back before they can spill down his cheeks.

From the corner, Grant lowers the chain attaching James' wrists to the ceiling. He takes out a key and unlocks the padlock, pulling the cuffs off and setting them aside. Then he takes James' right wrist and massages it tenderly. James lets out a slow breath.

James makes a small noise of protest, pulling back when Grant tentatively reaches for James' left hand.

"No?" asks Grant softly.

James' heart jumps to his throat. The holographic skin graft won't be able to disguise the fact that James' left arm is a prosthetic. But the mission parameters dictate that he has to let Grant do whatever he wants in order to lure him into a false sense of security.

"No," repeats Grant decisively. He places a warm, gentle hand on James' right hip. "Do you like who you see in the mirror?"

James nods. There's a lump in his throat. He's glad he doesn't have to speak.

Grant tilts his head, studying James' face in the mirror. Then he lifts his wrist and raises the riding crop, caressing James' jaw with the keeper. "Go ahead and drop the chain," he says, and James opens his mouth, sucking in a deep breath of air. "Kneel for me, please."

The clothespins pull oddly as James sinks to his knees. He lets his arms hang loosely at his sides.

Grant massages the area around James' nipples, then carefully unclips the clamps on both sides.

The rush of sensation is immediate. James moans, long and low, as blood pulses back into the area.

Grant gives James time to take a single breath, and then with two swift motions, he uses the riding crop to rapidly strike the clothespins off James' thighs.

James howls, falling forward onto his palms, trembling from head to toe. Tears trickle down his face, leaking out of his eyes as his nerves light up with fire.

Grant gently strokes his back, running his fingers from the nape of James' neck all the way down to the base of his spine. "You're doing so well, James," he says softly, "You're so good, so beautiful, taking it so well—take a deep breath now, that's right—take a moment to recover…"

Grant's voice is a lifeline in the resulting barrage. It feels like—like the tasers from the STRIKE team, but dampened, and so much better, because this time, the all-consuming pain is riding on a tidal wave of pleasure. James' cock agrees, spurting and twitching pre-come against his belly.

"Just a little bit longer," says Grant, rubbing a gentle circle on James' back. "Come on, let's move over to the bed." He slips his left hand into James' right, then stands, pulling James up with him.

James' legs tremble as Grant leads him to the bed, throws back the covers, and lays him flat on his back. Grant kicks off his shoes, but the rest of him is still fully clothed, but he's obviously aroused based on his tented jeans and flushed skin. When Grant settles on his knees next to him, James hesitantly reaches for Grant's crotch with his flesh hand, but Grant catches his wrist with a firm grip. "Not now," he says, huffing a laugh, and he guides James' wrist back to the bed. "Can you keep very still for me?"

James nods.

"You don't have to be quiet," Grant adds. He tightly circles the base of James' cock with his finger and thumb, squeezing once in warning. "Don't come until I give you permission. Do you understand?"

"Yes," says James. An agonized groan of frustration escapes his lips when Grant gently thumbs along the tip of James' cock. Grant smiles at him playfully, then leans forward and takes James' cock in his mouth, sucking and licking with abandon. James squeezes his eyes shut and fists the sheets, nearly tearing them with both flesh and metal as he struggles to maintain control. His thighs and nipples throb with residual pain from the clips, a feeling that is only amplified with each surge of pleasure arising from Grant's ministrations.

James' heart is nearly beating out of his chest by the time Grant lets up. His eyes linger on Grant's flushed, swollen lips before traveling up to Grant's eyes, now dilated with lust, black ringed by blue.

Grant takes a deep, slow breath and pushes his hair back from his forehead. "Put your feet flat on the bed," he orders, and he darts out of sight for a moment, returning with a bottle of lube. He pumps the top, coating the fingers of his right hand, and then kneels between James' spread legs. He catches James' gaze as he slowly, tentatively probes James' entrance, circling around it before pressing inside.

"All right?" asks Grant.

"Yes," James breathes. He feels surprisingly relaxed—much more so than when the STRIKE team does this to him. It helps that he's not on his hands or knees on a concrete floor. His body is still riding the flood of pleasure-pain from their previous activities, and he feels alternately nerveless and tightly wound.

"Good," says Grant, slowly pumping his finger in and out. He takes his time, letting James adjust to the stretch before adding another finger. When he's fitted three inside James' hole, he crooks his fingers and brushes against a spot inside that makes James see stars. James yelps, bucking his hips upward, and Grant presses him back down, repeating the motion over and over while his other hand roams James' body, pinching at James' tender nipples and thighs, scratching against James' belly and the soft skin under his ribs.

James whimpers and moans, his pleasure building to a peak. "Please," he gasps. "Please, I'm ready—"

"Okay," says Grant, flicking his fingers as he wraps his hand around James' cock and strokes fast, up and down, "Come, James—come for me _now_—"

James lets go, screaming as the world whites out around him.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve watches James tremble through the aftershocks of his orgasm, carefully petting James' chest as James comes down from the high. "James?" he asks quietly.

James sighs and smiles, the tight lines on his face softening as he sinks into the sheets, seemingly asleep.

Steve's heart flares with warm satisfaction. He strokes James' hair back from his forehead. "I'll be right back."

Steve ducks into the bathroom and quickly unzips his jeans, pulling out his angry, weeping cock. It only takes a few jerks before he splatters his release all over his palm. He lets out a long sigh of relief, only feeling a little guilty as he washes his hands with soap and water. He'd considered fucking James tonight, and he's sure James would have submitted willingly, but something in his gut told him that that wasn't the right way to go. And feeling James' hole clench around Steve's fingers, watching his whole body flush with a well-deserved orgasm—that had been mesmerizing. Steve doesn't think he'll ever forget it.

Steve pulls his pants back up and splashes some cold water on his heated face, then returns to the bed with a warm washcloth in tow.

James has turned onto his side, his head pillowed against his right arm. He stirs as Steve starts to wipe him clean, but he doesn't wake up. Steve gently wipes James' crotch and ass, getting as much lube and come off as he can. He tosses the cloth into the sink, and then he lies down next to James, stroking his fingers gently down the length of James' spine.

He finds the nano mask by accident.

Steve's been hyper-vigilant throughout the night to avoid James' left arm, as James clearly doesn't want it to be touched. But as Steve gets drowsier, he becomes careless, cuddling up against James' broad back and wrapping one arm around his solid waist. He slips his fingers into James', and that's when his eyes shoot open—because James' fingers aren't flesh and blood, they're hard and ridged, like they're prosthetic.

Steve carefully lifts himself up onto one elbow, examining James' forearm before moving his eyes up to his bicep, then his shoulder. Everything _looks_ like normal skin, but there is the slightest discoloration stretching from his left shoulder to his collarbone—and it's flickering in a way Steve recognizes from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s R&D presentations.

Steve sucks in a breath and gets off the bed. He takes out his phone, his thumbs hovering over Natasha's contact information. For a moment, he wonders if she set him up with another agent, and anger surges through him; she'd done that a couple times in the past. But no—she wouldn't betray his trust like that, not after Steve firmly told her to stop.

So who is this man? Another undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. agent looking to blow some steam on their day off?

Or—Steve's stomach turns—an enemy agent, sent to seduce Steve and—do what? Get intelligence?

Steve shakes his head. That can't be right. Steve isn't a high-profile agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Sure, he works on strategic planning for STRIKE missions, but at best he's a mid-level grunt, albeit a well-trained one. He's no Nick Fury; he's not even a commanding officer.

Steve bites his lip, studying the length of James' body as the events of the night replay in his head. Then, he silently resumes his position behind James and carefully starts to peel the mask off.

He only manages to peel the mask down to the red star before James jerks awake and grabs him, putting Steve into a chokehold with the metal arm against Steve's throat. James' eyes are wide, panicked, terrified—matching Steve's own expression. "You're—the Winter Soldier," Steve gasps, clutching at the metal arm and accidentally pulling the rest of the mask off. Steve drops it onto the bed somewhere.

James flinches, but he doesn't deny what Steve said.

Steve's heart pounds frantically as he tries to think of how to get out of this situation. He can't come up with anything besides death or immediate extraction—and he has no team nearby who can help. The Winter Soldier is a legendary assassin who leaves no traces behind; Steve didn't even think he was _real_, just a horror story Natasha and Clint were using to scare Steve as a new agent. Yet here the Soldier is, naked after an intense round of submission, holding Steve's life in his hands.

"Soldier," says Steve softly, like he's soothing a feral animal. He holds up his hands carefully. "What's your mission?"

James swallows. "To let you bed me."

Steve frowns, bewildered. "But—_why_?"

James' eyes dart around the room wildly, like he's hoping an answer will magically appear in the dungeon.

"Who gave you the mission?" Steve tries.

James' eyes snap back to Steve. "My handlers," he responds in a flat tone, so different from the nuanced vocalizations from their play.

"Who do your handlers work for?" asks Steve.

James' eyes shutter and his lips press together.

"Okay," says Steve, exhaling slowly. "Are you going to kill me?"

James shakes his head.

Interesting. Steve frowns harder. "What _are_ you going do to me?"

James looks startled by the question. His mouth opens and closes a few times. Clearly, he doesn't know how to answer.

"This conversation would be a lot easier if we were on, uh, equal footing," Steve says.

James' brow furrows in confusion.

"Look, you're naked, you've just been rudely jerked out of sub-drop, and you're probably dehydrated. I'd feel a lot better talking with you about…your mission…if you were dressed."

James swallows audibly. "Don't move," he mutters, and he climbs off Steve, then darts around the room snatching his clothes from the floor and shoving his feet back into his boots. He's dressed and back at the bed in less than a minute.

"There are some sealed water bottles in the night stand," Steve tells James before he can press his metal arm against Steve's throat again. Steve gives him a hopeful look. "I'd appreciate it if I could sit up and drink one."

James narrows his eyes, but he hands Steve a water bottle anyway.

Steve telegraphs his movements as he sits up against the headboard and takes a long, refreshing sip. "So," Steve starts awkwardly, casting about for something to say—but then the door slams open, and six STRIKE agents burst in, heading straight for the two of them, guns blazing.

"Hey!" Steve cries, outraged. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

One of the STRIKE team members laughs. "You ought to be thanking us for coming to your rescue, you little twink!"

"That's not just some twink, that's one of ours. You all recognize Agent Rogers, don't you?" says another STRIKE team member with a familiar annoying voice.

Steve glares, furious about his blown cover. "Rumlow?"

"Got it in one," says Rumlow. "Don't worry, we're not here for you. We're here for the Soldier."

Steve glances at James, who's shrunk back against the wall, looking more like a cornered animal than some famed assassin. James sends Steve a pleading gaze, and Steve's heart twinges with guilt.

"What do you want with him?" asks Steve slowly.

Rumlow snorts. "None of your business. It's above your pay grade."

Steve lifts his jaw, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm owed an explanation. James approached _me_ tonight—"

"James?" Rumlow guffaws. "Is _that_ what he named himself? Soldier, you know better than that. You don't have a name."

Steve's gut clenches at James' humiliated expression. He scowls at Rumlow. "Look. He said his mission was to seduce me, and I deserve to know why."

"His mission was to seduce a certain blonde twink, but _you_ weren't the intended target," Rumlow tells Steve, chuckling, and then he lifts his gun, pointing the barrel at Steve's head. "It's a shame he picked the wrong one. You've been a valuable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D., Rogers, but unfortunately you'll never be as valuable as the Soldier."

"You don't have to do this, Rumlow," says Steve frantically, his heart racing. "Come on—"

In a sudden flash, James _moves._

Steve gapes, watching from the corner James shoved him into, as James disarms and knocks out the entire STRIKE team in a blur of motion—all without getting a single injury himself. James then plucks all the communication devices from their prone bodies and crushes them to dust under his boots. He warily circles and surveys the room one more time before giving Steve the all-clear signal.

Steve gets to his feet shakily. "Thank you. For—for saving my life." He sucks in a long breath of air, letting it out slowly until he can focus again. "Let's, um. Let's go secure the building."

James follows Steve obediently up the stairs and out onto the landing. Steve locks the dungeon door and activates the emergency security measures, putting the building on lockdown and alerting Natasha and Clint of a security breach. Steve also sends a coded text to both Natasha and Clint, letting them know that the intruders are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who tried to kill Steve. He makes sure the messages have been delivered and read before deleting the entire thread.

When Steve looks back at James, James is chewing his lip and holding out his palm.

Steve's eyes widen as he takes in the tentacled skull pin. "HYDRA?" he asks.

"You asked about my handlers," says James. 

Steve's mind whirls. "But HYDRA has been gone for years."

James shrugs nervously. "This STRIKE team—they manage me for most missions. They're HYDRA."

"So part of S.H.I.E.L.D. is HYDRA?" Steve asks, his stomach sinking. 

James shrugs again.

Steve studies the pin. "Is this a tracking device?" he asks.

James shakes his head.

Steve drops the pin into his pocket for safekeeping, exhaling a shaky breath. "Okay. Um. Thank you for telling me. My team and I will...figure it out." His voice trails off weakly. How can he be sure that Natasha and Clint aren't HYDRA too? How can he trust anyone? How can he even be sure James is telling the truth? 

"I'm sorry," says James quietly. He suddenly sinks to his knees, crossing his arms behind his back. "You're kinder than the STRIKE team," he says, darting a glance at Steve. "Please. I'd rather have you."

Steve's eyes widen, and he tries to select his words carefully. "You don't have to be theirs, James. But you don't have to be mine, either."

James' shoulders sag in disappointment.

Steve squats down. "Hey," he says, waiting for James to meet his gaze. "You can be your own person. You should be. But I'll help you figure out who that is, if you want. Would you like that?"

James' eyes glimmer with unshed tears. "Yes, Grant."

Steve gives him a small smile. "My name's actually Steve," he says. "Should I keep calling you James?"

A little line appears in James' brow. "I think," he whispers, like he's not very certain, "people used to call me Bucky."

"Okay, Bucky," says Steve, and he holds out a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Bucky shakes Steve's hand tentatively.

Steve rises, and Bucky goes with him. Together, they watch the sun peek in through the slitted windows of the warehouse as they wait for Natasha and Clint to arrive. There will be more to deal with later, but for now, they can have this moment of peace. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, and transformative works are ALWAYS appreciated. Please tell me what you think!
> 
> [Rebloggable tumblr post](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/post/188505398668/overcome-me-dragongirlg)
> 
> Title from Vienna Teng's song [Momentum](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/viennateng/momentum.html). You can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/rVw8oWrHKEQ).
> 
> Please come say hello: [Tumblr](https://dragongirlg-fics.tumblr.com/) | [Dreamwidth](https://dragongirlg.dreamwidth.org/) | [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/dragongirlg)


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